


And Your Enemies Closer

by DachOsmin



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Auction, Begging, Collars, Dubious Consent, Enemies to Lovers, Greedo Shot First, Hate Sex, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sex Pollen, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-07-31 18:40:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20119831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: Han finds himself up for auction at Jabba's palace, and Boba Fett steps up to buy him. At which point things promptly go from bad to worse.





	And Your Enemies Closer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Filigranka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/gifts).

Han’s luck runs out in a narrow alley of Mos Eisley that smells like bantha shit. He’s going through the state of the Falcon’s power cells in his head, not paying attention to his surroundings at all, so it’s really no one’s fault but his own when he looks up and sees Greedo in front of him, blaster aimed squarely at his chest.

“Jabba’s patience has run out,” Greedo says.

“I have the money,” Han says, arms wide and placating. And the thing is, it's almost close to being true: he’s just met with an old man and a farm boy that want to rent out the Falcon for a milk run and Han knows, _knows_, that for once it's all going to work out. He’s so close to being in the clear he can almost taste it.

“I have the money,” he says again, and even in his own ears he can hear the hope in his voice, stupid and desperate.

Greedo lets out an ugly laugh. “No,” he says, “you don't.” The muzzle flash is the last thing he sees.

***

Coming back to himself feels like falling: a twisting in his stomach, alien and wrong. There are lights. Sounds. Hissing and screaming. One million pinpricks across his skin. He’s being dragged, legs limp beneath him in the sand. He can’t see straight, but he can hear people talking and laughing, and one booming laugh in particular that sets his spine prickling with fear.

Whoever’s carrying him throws him to his knees, and the crowd goes quiet; even half blind he can tell with a terrible surety that they’re all looking at him.

“Look,” he slurs, because he knows exactly where he is. “Look, Jabba,” he says, throwing an arm out in supplication. The movement sets him off balance and he stumbles sideways, panting in pain as the sand digs into his knees.

From all around him, laughter. And then there it is again: the boom of Jabba’s laugh, loud enough to hurt.

“Jabba,” Han repeats, trying to remember what it is he’s supposed to say right now.

“Han,” the bastard gurgles, mimicking the slur in his voice. “Han.”

Even through both sides of the species barrier, Han can taste the mocking edge in Jabba’s voice. He swallows roughly and casts around for something, anything to get him out of this mess.

“Jabba- the money, I swear-“

Jabba cuts him off with another booming laugh. “It has been a long time, Han Solo.”

Han tries for a placating smile that probably lands somewhere around a grimace. “I- yeah, I was out, getting- trying to get your money-“

“-trying, but not succeeding.”

His eyesight is getting better; he can just make out Jabba’s mass, along with the little rat thing on Jabba’s shoulder. It’s laughing at him. Han wishes more than anything he had a blaster and a steady hand to blow the thing to smithereens. “No! I mean, yes, but-“

Jabba lets out a pensive gust of air. “Do you know, Han solo, what is to be done with the poor investment? Something that once had promise but is slowly bleeding you dry?”

“You give it another chance?” Han asks through gritted teeth because maybe today is his lucky day and the suggestion will jog something in that thick head.

But no, Jabba is already rolling back his eyes in the negative. “No, Han Solo. When an investment disappoints, and disappoints, and disappoints… the only hope is to sell it, that you might recoup a bit of the money it has lost you.”

The lingering effects of the blaster must be clogging his brain because at first all Han feels is relief: Jabba didn't say anything about summary execution- and then it hits him.

“As it so happens,” Jabba says, clearly enjoying himself, “there are a number of very interested buyers.”

***

They bind him and strip him of his guns and his clothes. Jabba’s slave girls bathe him in scented oil, water being too precious to waste on a failed smuggler turned debt-slave. Oola cards her hands through his hair and turns a blind eye to the tears in his eyes. He’s always liked her.

He’s vaguely aware of hands tying a cloth around his hips. A moment later he winces at the cold bite of metal when another girl fits two halves of a collar around the pillar of his neck and locks them into place. They affix a chain leash to it. It all feels like it’s happening to some other person.

They lead him by the leash back to the antechamber and his heart sinks when he sees the crowd that’s gathered to bid on him. Jabba must have put out a notice; it’s like a reunion of everyone he’s ever wronged. There’s Bossk the Trandoshan; if he wins Han he’ll probably go for dismemberment. There’s Esaiiu Keru; Han figures she’ll opt for torture. Han shudders. It wouldn’t be quick. And then, on the side of the crowd but somehow apart from it, is Boba Fett.

Han isn’t exactly surprised to see Fett taking part in the proceedings; Han’s screwed him over more times than he can count. Fett would probably be happy to kill him. But he’d be a professional about it, at least. Two taps to the back of the head, no fuss. Considering Han’s current situation, that might be the best he can hope for.

Bib Fortuna snaps his fingers and the bidding begins. Bossk is raring to go, and Esaiiu jumps in soon after. The price goes up and up and up, and Han is almost impressed how much people are willing to pay to kill him.

“Ten thousand,” Bossk hisses, and Esaiiu falls silent with a glare.

Fortuna tsks. “Ten thousand credits, any takers?”

The silence is hanging fire, and Han can feel his death waiting in like a weight on his chest.

A droid beeps in the distance. The sand digs into his knees. He shivers.

A voice, cleaving through the quiet. “Twelve thousand.”

He knows that voice, has heard it and hated it for the last decade and a half. He lifts his head, and immediately finds himself pinned by the gaze of Fett.

“Sold,” says Fortuna, with perhaps a hint of surprise in his voice.

Like a broken droid whirring back to life, the crowd springs into hushed motion, murmurs thick in the air.

Han doesn’t hear any of it. What kind of death does twelve thousand credits buy? Esaiiu would have tortured him, and Bossk would have cut him apart. But Fett?

Fett stalks over, and Han struggles to get his game face on. “I didn’t think you’d pay that much to kill me,” he says with more bravado than he feels.

Fett murmurs something to Fortuna and takes the preferred end of the leash before turning to Han. “I didn’t buy you to kill you.”

It’s hard to read Fett’s voice through the mechanization filters of his mask. He could be telling the truth, but Han isn’t feeling particularly hopeful. “Why, then?”

“We’re leaving,” Fett growls, and turns to go. Han struggles to his feet- not that he’s looking forward to whatever horrors Fett has in store for him, but anything’s better than being left with Jabba.

They’re almost to the door when Esaiiu sidles up next to Fett and lays a hand on the shoulder plate of his armor. “Going so soon?”

Fett shrugs her hand off. “I’ve got work to do.”

“No one likes a sore winner,” she says with a pout. “You could at least share. Stars know he deserves it.”

“He’s bought and paid for. I’ll do with him what I want.” But Fett hesitates a second, and Han can see that back on the dais Jabba is watching them with a speculative gleam in his eye.

“We’ll stay for a drink,” Fett finally says. He leads Han to an empty seat by the far wall and sits down. There’s no other chair, so Han resigns himself to standing.

“Kneel,” Fett says.

Han ignores him. Like fuck he’s going to-

Fett yanks Han’s leash hard enough that he collapses on the sand, gagging and coughing against the bite of the collar.

Once Han has stopped gagging he glares up at Fett. “Changed your mind? Going to kill me here after all?”

Fett doesn’t even look at him, just jerks at the leash once more. “Keep your mouth shut.”

It takes everything he has not to spit on the dull leather of Fett’s boots. But he manages to restrain himself; instead he pulls himself into a kneeling position and imagines tearing Fett limb from limb.

“Good,” Fett murmurs, and Han really, really wants to kill him.

Before Han can tell Fett how exactly he should go fuck himself, Oola melts out of the crowd. There’s a cup of milky liquid in her hand. “A gift for your slave,” she says, holding it out. “From lord Jabba.”

Han feels Fett stiffen beside him. For all their differences, he knows they agree on some things. Namely: a gift from Jabba is no gift at all. It’s nothing you want, and it’s nothing you can refuse.

A reasonable person takes what he’s given by Jabba with a smile and a thank-you. That said, Han’s not feeling particularly reasonable right now. He presses his lips firmly together and turns his head away from the cup.

Suddenly there’s a hand wrapped in his hair yanking his head back, and he can’t help but gasp from the pain. “Pour it down his throat,” Fett growls, and then there’s bitter liquid in his mouth and he’s coughing and gagging on the sand. He tries to spit as much of it out as he can, but he still ends up swallowing plenty, and knows it’s going to bite him in the ass.

It takes a few minutes for the drug to kick in, but when it does it kicks in hard. One moment he’s kneeling next to Fett and hating his life. The next, he’s floating through the galaxy, the only things anchoring him to his body the dig of sand under his knees, the cold bite of the collar around his neck, and the unfurling heat in his gut.

“Need to leave,” he slurs as soon as he realizes what’s happening.

Fett doesn’t respond, and for a terrifying moment Han is convinced that he means for Han to go through this in public, that this is the punishment he had in mind all along.

But then Fett is standing and saying, “come, then,” in a soft voice. Han tries to stand but his legs give way. He stumbles and tries to crawl. But it’s no good: his arms won’t hold his weight, and two seconds later he goes sprawling again. There’s muffled laughter, but it sounds very far away, like he’s hearing it underwater.

He looks up to see Fett staring down at him, and he’s seized with the fear that Fett is going to leave him here. But then Fett reaches down and loops an arm underneath his back and another beneath his knees, and he’s lifting Han like he weighs nothing at all.

Han can’t say anything; he can barely think. The room is spinning around him; he closes his eyes to keep from being sick. There’s only the warmth of Fett’s body and the ache in his own.

Suddenly he’s being laid down on something soft. Sand? No, a bed. He opens his eyes and there’s brushed metal and bright lights above his head. He’s on a ship.

Fett is twisting one gloved hand in Han’s hair and wrenching his head back. He stares at Han’s pupils for a moment before releasing him with a muffled curse. “Spice from Zeltros.”

Bad stuff, Han’s memory helpfully provides. A psychoactive and an aphrodisiac. Expensive.

The rest of Han doesn’t give a flying fuck what it is or what it does. The rest of Han is lit up like blaster fire, and needs to be touched right now. He tries to say so, but it comes out as a moan.

Above him, Fett turns to go. “Wait it out.”

And Han could cry, because he needs to be touched, he needs it low in his gut. He’s achingly hard in his pants; every time he moves it sends a spike of need right to his cock. He bites his lip and focuses on the brightness of the pain until he can remember how to speak again. “You got me into this mess, you could at least give me a hand.”

“Your utter incompetence got you into this mess.”

“Fuck you,” he says, and realizes he’s crying; he can feel the sting in his eyes.

“If you were-“

Too much talking. He rolls himself off the bed and launches himself at Fett, and maybe it’s just the element of surprise, but he manages to catch the fucker in the knees. His hands are clumsy, almost useless, but he gets them to the groin of Fett’s pants and scrabbles at the clasps with shaking fingers.

Fett yanks the leash and pulls him away. The collar bites against his windpipe, so tight he can barely breathe. And fuck, it goes straight to his cock. His head lolls and he moans, reaching down to palm himself through his pants.

Fett’s helmet is opaque, but Han thinks he might be staring. “Come on, tin-can,” he gasps. “Unless you can’t get it up.”

Fett snorts. “You might do better in life if you didn’t insult people you want things from.”

Fuck, Han’s been in some real messes in his life but he’s never felt this desperate before. “Look, I’ll pay you to fuck me. I’ll pay you- fuck, I don’t know- two hundred credits,” he says, wishing he was anywhere but here.

Fett is tilting his head like he’s considering it, and Han is holding his breath, hoping against hope-

“Four hundred.”

“Are you fucking serious? Okay fine, four hundred_.”_

“Deal.” And then Fett is lifting him like he’s a rag doll and tossing him onto his back on the bed. Han cries out, half from the shock of it, half from the way it goes straight to his cock.

Fett is staring at him again, and Han feels a tear of frustration and anger roll down his cheek. “Don’t make me beg, you fucking asshole,” he manages to bite out. “I’ll kill you if you make me beg.”

Fett starts, and then shakes his head. “I wouldn’t do that,” he says. There’s an odd undercurrent to the words, but between Fett’s voice-modulator and the drugs Han has no idea what it is. Han lets it go, because _finally_ Fett is taking his armor off, and then his shoes and shirt. He takes the time to fold it all, and Han wants to scream at him to hurry the fuck up, but his mouth isn’t working again.

Fett leaves his pants and helmet for last, which looks pretty funny but even Han has enough self-preservation not to laugh. Fett hesitates another second before taking the helmet off.

Han blinks. He doesn’t know what he was expecting- some grotesque alien maybe? Some sinister old guy? -but a young man with a full mouth and space-black eyes was not it. “You’re not supposed to be hot,” he slurs.

Fett shoots him a scowl that’s remarkably expressive. But why wouldn’t it be? If you’ve got a helmet on all day there’s no need to develop a poker face.

Luckily Fett’s crawling up onto the bed next to him before he can say more stupid shit. He gets to work pulling off Han’s loincloth, and Han cries out in agonized relief when his cock finally springs free. He reaches down to take himself in hand, but Fett slaps his hand away, and Han can’t help but keen.

“That makes it worse,” Fett murmurs, and Han is opening his mouth to ask how the fuck he knows that but then Fett’s taking Han in his mouth, and suddenly nothing else matters. Fuck, it’s so good: wet and hot and aching. Han is babbling something, he has no idea what, but words fail him entirely when Fett swallows around his cock, hands like vises on Han’s hips, holding him down against the mattress.

Han’s already holding on by a thread, and the second Fett hums around his cock Han sees white like blaster fire as he jerks up against Fett’s hands, hips stuttering and shivering as he comes. Fett drinks him down to the end, until he’s spent and empty and boneless, and it’s all he can do to fall back stunned against the pillows, shivering from the shock of it.

He lies there on his back for seconds or hours as the room spins around him, staring up at the lights on the ceiling. Fett is saying something but Han can’t hear it. Or he can hear it, but he doesn’t remember what any of the words mean, individually or strung together. He’s about to ask Fett to repeat himself when he feels a jolt rip through his body.

It’s hard to get his body to do what he wants, but he finally manages to pull his head up enough to look around- and realizes with dawning horror that his cock is rising again, and heat is pooling in his belly. He can’t see Fett anywhere, and terror seizes him. What if he’s gone? What if Han’s all alone?

“Shh,” Fett says, suddenly close, and Han hears the snick of a zipper undone, the snap of a lid, the ooze of liquid.

“This is how the drug works. You’re going to be okay.” And Han wants to ask how he knows that, how he can be so sure, how he can sound so kind when he hates Han and wants to kill him dead and is only doing this because Han is paying him.

Hands are parting his thighs and there’s a finger, slick and cool, pressing into him firmly but gently, plying at the rim. It’s not enough. His cock is hard and aching against his stomach now and there are tears streaming down his cheeks, blurring everything into bright and hazy shapes.

He can just make out Fett, but otherwise the world is reduced to sounds and sensations: his own ragged breathing, and Fett’s voice, oddly gentle; the throbbing of his cock, and Fett’s fingers, fucking into him.

He cries out when the fingers slip away and he said he wouldn’t beg but he would now, if he could remember the words. But then there’s something blunt and thick breeching his entrance and pushing deeper, inch by inch. It burns at first, but he welcomes it: the pain is an anchor to cling to, something other than the terrible pleasure pulsing in his cock.

Fett bottoms out with a soft grunt and starts to move. He sets a punishing pace, slamming into him hard and fast, over and over, each thrust wringing a cry from Han’s hoarse throat. He loses himself to the sensations, the pressure building in him inexorably with each thrust until finally, thankfully, blessedly, he’s tipping over the edge, and screaming as he shakes apart.

There’s a keening cry above him, and the hands on his hips loosen. As he floats out of consciousness, the last thing he hears is a quiet sigh, and the last thing he feels is lips brushing over his sweat-slicked forehead, and then everything goes dark.

***

Han wakes up to a raging headache and the steady thrum of the ship taking off, which just makes the headache worse. He manages to pull himself upright and get his clothes on, then stumbles off in search of coffee. He doesn’t think about the night before. He _doesn’t_.

Instead of coffee, he finds Fett sitting in the pilot’s seat of the ship. He’s got his helmet on again, and is as spare and emotionless as Han’s ever seen him. If Han didn’t know better, he’d say he imagined the whole night before, but even Han’s imagination isn’t that good.

Han takes a seat in the copilot’s seat and tries for a winning smile. “How’s it going, handsome?”

Fett doesn’t turn. “You kick in your sleep.”

“Good morning to you too.”

They sit in silence as Jabba’s palace gets smaller and smaller beneath them, and the landscape switches over to spare desert as far as the eye can see. Han wrestles with his thoughts. They’re leaving Jabba and going… somewhere. He’d asked Fett the night before why he bought him, and got no answer in return. He can’t imagine Fett still wants to kill him. But he has no idea what the future has in store.

He’s about to bring it up when Fett leans back in his seat. “I’ll drop you off at Mos Eisley. I suggest you start looking for work; you owe me a lot of money.”

Hopefully the old man and the farm boy still want passage to Alderaan, even a day late. Has it really only been a day? It feels like a lifetime ago. “Yeah,” Han says, “I’ll pay you back the twelve thousand as soon as I can.”

“Twelve thousand four hundred,” Fett says without looking away from the dash.

Where had the four hundred…? Oh right. “Really? You’re going to hold me to that?”

A muffled snort. “I keep my word, Han Solo. You should try it some time.”

“Fuck you,” Han says and gets up to leave. He pauses in the doorway. “So, if you’re just letting me go, why did you buy me in the first place?”

Fett doesn’t react, and for a second Han figures he didn’t hear. But then Fett glances back at him, and Han thinks he just might be able to see a glint of his eyes through his visor, and then it’s all black again. “We’ll be in Mos Eisley in an hour,” he says, and turns back to the dash. “Be ready.”

And Han knows in his bones that’s all the explanation he’s ever going to get.


End file.
